


and so you are returned to me

by Poose, seven_hells (Poose)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Absence, Canon Het Relationship, F/M, Married Couple, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/seven_hells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally for the prompt 'post-Greyjoy's rebellion reunion sex,' but turned hella angsty along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so you are returned to me

On the ramparts and on the walls she waited, she watched for him. The raven had brought a message a moon ago, bearing curt words that did not mention the battles fought, only that he was well and would be returning with Greyoy's remaining son and heir.    
  
Her eyes scanned the horizon each morn before she breakfasted, and again, after her afternoon prayers in the godswood. Before the raven had come she had prayed fervently for his life. Now, Catelyn prayed to the gods for yet more favors: for his safe passage across the bay to the mainland; that his journey across to the Neck would not be delayed by summer snows; for a speedy journey up the Kingsroad.   
  
One morning a few weeks before Sansa's eighth name day he returned. Catelyn had already risen and dressed and spent a quarter of an hour looking down for outriders, as was her custom. As she sat down to her breakfast of toasted bread and fritters of salted cod, a trumpet rang out.   
  
"Father!" screeched her youngest daughter, pushing back her chair and running for the door. Robb's face lit up and he followed suit, tearing past his mother and sister.   
  
"Don't run!" Sansa shouted as she ran after them, with her skirts hiked up in a way that was decidedly unladylike.   
  
Winterfell was waking up. The trumpet rang out again. The baby was with his nurse, safe enough for the time being, Catelyn decided, and then she ran after her children to the top of the outer wall to watch her lord husband ride home from Robert Baratheon's second war.   
  
The returning party halted before the gates, and Catelyn let out a held breath to see that the man on the huge palfrey was indeed her Ned. The porticulus took an age to raise, and Eddard Stark, solemn and wary, kept his eyes level with it until he kicked his horse into a trot. Then he caught her eye, and even at that distance, she knew his secret wink. 

Catelyn had seen to it that Balon Greyjoy's last remaining son had suitable quarters prepared for him. Ned had squeezed her hand in greeting - ever stoic in the presence of others, especially his bannermen - and presented her with Theon. The boy was shy and did not meet her gaze, so she dropped down to her knees. 

"We must find a place for him, my lady," Ned said. 

"Of course, my Lord," she said, taking Theon's small hand in her own. She was rewarded with a smile, crooked and insecure, that saddened her. She knew all too well what it felt like to arrive at Winterfell, a place foreboding and foreign, from afar.  "I will see to it immediately. Take some rest." 

"Hello," said her son, coming up to their new ward. His cheeks were ruddy from the wind. "What's your name?" 

Theon was quiet, but that was no matter, since Robb and Arya talked nonstop. 

"When can we see him?" Robb asked, grumpily. Arya sulked, and even Sansa, her little lady, fidgeted with anticipation.   
  
"Your father needs rest," she scolded them, after they asked a dozen times to see him. "He is here now, you must needs have patience." 

 _He is mine more than yours,_ she thought, an ungrateful and ungraceful thing to think about their children. But she had a woman's needs, and a widow's heart these last long months, always perched on the cusp of expected bad tidings and inevitable grief.   
  
Catelyn left the grumbling children with the Maester and Septa Mordane and after stopping by the kitchens to make preparations for that night's dinner, she tiptoed back to her own chambers.   
  
Ned was abed, atop the furs, breeches on and tunic unlaced. And asleep as a stone, dead to the world. Catelyn shut the door and barred it against the little Starks, so eager to see their father.   
  
The room was warm. Catelyn stoked her fires higher when Ned was away, as if the extra warmth of the room could replace his sleeping solidity. Climbing into the bed with him, though, pressing her chest to his bare back, she knew that no fire could ever burn so hot as her sweet solemn husband.   
  
Ned slept heavily. The warmth of the room lulled Catelyn into a place of tranquility, but it was with her arms wrapped around Ned's chest that she finally slept as she had not for a dozen moons.   
  
She blinked her eyes open, her body already rising to rush to the ramparts to look for Ned before remembering. _No, Ned is here. Home. Alive._

Catelyn touched his shoulder, allowing herself to appreciate the weight of him. Countless nights she had fallen asleep holding a pillow where Ned should have been, awakening, sudden and sad, reaching out her hand and finding only empty space beside her. 

This Ned was solid. His arms were as strong as she remembered, scratched with new scars she did not know yet. The skin that covered them was shiny and pink, and Catelyn let herself look. Each one told a story that could have been his death. All her worst fears, each night and every day -- that Ned would take a quarrel in the shoulder, or a spear in the leg, be run through with a sword, that his corpse would be not be cleaned or buried or burnt by the ironmen. 

So many nights Catelyn had lain awake sick with the thought that they would keep even Ned's bones from her. They would dump him in the ocean without ceremony, and she would be deprived of her final farewell. 

"Why do you cry?" 

Catelyn sniffed. "Because you are returned to me, my love." 

Ned turned himself to her and took her in his arms. Lady Catelyn had been strong for such a long time, for each week and moon for almost two years, and in all that time she had swallowed back her tears. 

Catelyn had grown accustomed to silence. Though she filled her days with people there was always the inevitable moment when she had to return to her bedchambers, alone, to sit out the night with only the cold stone walls for company. 

In contrast to those icy nights, the silence of her husband was warm, and he held her in his arms, then, and he became her strength. She cried so hard that her head began to ache, and every time she resolved to stop, more tears would come, unbidden. 

Every emotion passed out through her eyes: fury that he could have left her, relief that he was home, fear for all the times she thought him slain, joy that he was here, and _hers_. 

Catelyn laughed because she could not help but cry. Her laughter made her hiccup, her hiccups made her cough, until she sank sniffling into Ned's chest. 

"All better?" he said, cradling her head. 

She nodded, then, ashamed to have cried so. 

"I am sorry," she began. 

"Whatever for?" Ned asked her, his gray eyes full of concern. 

 _For being weak_ , she wanted to say. For living each day so full of fright that I could scarcely breathe. For watching the skies and praying selfishly, solely for you to return. 

"It is no matter," she said, leaning over to kiss him. All that matters is this, you, me, here,  _now._

And all at once she wanted him to posses her fully, as a man to his wife, a lord to his lady. 

The need took her as suddenly as had her tears. Ned must have felt the same. Her mouth was hesitant at first contact, but she quickly grew greedy, demanding. 

Their months apart had made familiar gestures strange; teeth clacked painfully as they both misjudged the distance between them. Catelyn sat oddly on Ned's stomach in her haste to clamber atop him, and he, in his own hurried way, tore a third of the buttons off the front of her dress. 

They clattered to the floor. 

"Kiss me," she said, for he had pulled away now that she was exposed. He took one breast in each huge hand -- gods, _his hands_ , calloused from holding shield and sword, rough against the sensitive skin of her nipples -- and buried his face between them. He moved his head from side to side, his unkempt beard scratching at the skin of her chest. Her hands grabbed at the laces of his breeches, tangling them even more in her hurry to pull them open. 

Ned pulled her skirts above her waist. With one hand he tore her smallclothes off enough for them to dangle off of one ankle. He used one hand to guide himself inside of her -- and Catelyn was no maid, but his absence was keenly felt, and she whimpered. His eyes burned hot and yet even in his passion he asked if he was hurting her. 

"I don't care," she insisted, and it was true. The pain made it real, made _him_ real, and as her body adjusted to the familiar intrusion Ned pulled her onto him, moving her with his hands on her hips, the wet slap of their skin muffled by the heavy weight of her skirts all around them. 

"Oh, my love," Cat moaned, as he cupped her breast and suckled it. His other hand grazed the place where they were joined, stroking only lightly, but her desire was well-stoked, and she found release in his touch. 

"Cat," he panted. She drew his other hand to her breast, the nipple peaked and swollen from his touch. 

"Ned," she breathed, finding the pace she knew he liked, the rolling stroke that made him shudder, and the movement atop him was enough to pull another wave of pleasure from her as he spent, clutching her back and sucking her teats, gasping her name.

Catelyn let herself be unladylike, greedy, selfish. She kept him in her bed, and Ned took her twice more before supper, where she knew that the children awaited him anxiously. 

Her husband had returned to her, and Catelyn Stark intended to keep him close. 

 


End file.
